


Puzzle Pieces

by Sapph



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Multi, Not Canon Compliant, OT4, post-redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 03:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2757644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapph/pseuds/Sapph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is as if they are healing slowly, all except for one festering part they almost amputated when they saw no chance at reattachment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puzzle Pieces

There are monsters in their skins; not demons rested on weary shoulders or skeletons hurling their frames against the inside of their skulls, but artefacts crafted in the furnace of their hearts—the resentful forges where they hammered anguish into blades to trade amongst each other.

 

There's a different monster in his eyes, it rears with bloodied tooth and claw and strikes at their deepest core, for it bears the brand of many, amongst which their own.

 

It is only fair, they once thought, that he should suffer the darkness he brought into existence hoisted upon trusted shoulders; that he should pay for the mistakes they made after his lies had buried their hearts in bitterness.

 

It is only fair that he should die by their hand as he would surely not show mercy given the chance.

 

But he's had plenty.

 

–

 

These days they stand side by side, brushing shoulders and sharing glances; but contact is treacherous, it pushes where it wishes to pull, and intent is lost when gazes are averted. It is as if they are healing slowly, all except for one festering part they almost amputated when they saw no chance at reattachment.

 

He carries them, one by one, from the blaze of their hatred to a safer place where the light slithers into the cracks in their shields, illuminating feelings they had thought lost. They go along reluctantly under Coulson's orders, sinking their blades into his knees as their backs burn with vindication until blood mixes and pedestals crumble, until their wounds begin to close while his bleed perpetually—until their hands are slick with blood and his grip remains steady.

 

There was always something to be admired in his selfless determination, but the darkness swallowed every memory and replaced it with a mirror; with their eyes adjusted to the shift in luminance, recognition is born-again.

 

When they are finally willing to understand, questions are followed by a silence as solid as opaque walls obstructing search lights.

 

It won't do.

 

–

 

Skye laughs until the stars collide, a supernova in her eyes. Jemma follows their path with a smile curving fondness on wine-stained lips. A heavy weight has settles in her legs, but her head is a hollow where wonder is stashed, eclipsing all fact.

 

“Come on,” Fitz exclaims in frustration, struggling to uncork another bottle.

 

Jemma watches, silently, as Skye's laughing eyes turn into an invitation, as her lips tighten and pupils widen in eagerness. She recognizes the false annoyance in Fitz' expression as the bottle is lifted from his hands and opened with a _pop_. She waits, all her patience gathered in the smoothness of her brow, and traces the edges of a dark-clad frame with a heart that _aches_ and a mind that offers no solution.

 

She can't help but marvel at way those dark eyes glide across their chaotic presence as if aware a flicker would give away his state of mind. _As if_ , she mulls, _as if._ Her composure collapses beneath the weight of her thoughts. She stands up, spilling wine across the rim of her glass, and almost trips over Skye's legs. Fitz' snort should earn him a glare, but she can't be bothered; so she carefully sets down her glass and rubs her temple.

 

“Don't,” she says even though he has not moved, hasn't reacted to her halted motions but for the slight rise of his shoulders. He cocks his head and it's odd, it's human, it's _something_.

 

She hasn't witnessed  _something_ in a while.

 

When she lays her palm in the middle of his chest, he doesn't pull away, but her heart flutters with a hushed sadness as his muscles pull taut.

 

_I can help,_ she doesn't say,  _I want to._

 

She drops her arm when the silence invades her ribcage, settling somewhere between her heart and lungs—frustration swells in her chest; all she wants is to feel him lean into her touch.

 

When she looks up, his jaw is wired shut, she can see the sutures in the tightness of his eyes. She hears the ragged exhale that spills from Skye's lungs and presses her fingers to her lips. His eyes trace the subconscious movement, before his gaze falls to the people behind her— _waver_ , she wills, _let me catch you_ _._

 

He doesn't.

 

–

 

He slams his head into the desk and groans, the metal bolt almost dropping from his hands once more.

 

“Lose a screw?” Skye quips from the doorway. He gives her a look he hopes conveys the extend of his amusement and returns to the device he's currently reassembling. He keeps his attention trained on his work as her footsteps near, but smiles when she brushes her lips against his cheek.

 

“Movie when you're done?” she proposes, running gentle fingers down his arm. He hums in agreement and connects another set of wires.

 

“Jemma?” he enquires, because he noticed she left the lab about an hour ago and is irked she didn't tell him. The years have not restored the connection they used to share, they are different people now—it took a long time to admit that maybe that's okay.

 

Skye smirks at the grumble in his voice. “Waiting for us.”

 

He nods but pauses; she reads him like computer code, her shoulders lifting with a sigh.

 

“I don't know Fitz.”

 

He jerks his head, grateful when she leaves him to his thoughts.

 

Hours later the device still won't work properly and he can't figure out why—it's as if an essential part is somehow missing.

 

–

 

“Son of a bitch,” she bites out as pain shoots through her calf with every step, her gun shaking in her grip. Her head pulses and blood seeps from the cut on her brow—there weren't supposed to be that many.

 

“...y? Skye?” her comm crackles to life and she almost laughs in relief; she must be out of the jammer's range.

 

“Hold on,” May says, static clinging to her voice. She knows that if May is on the bus, it means-

 

It's like he blinks into existence, or perhaps the head wound is more serious than she thought. A strong arm wraps around her waist as they stumble down the concrete slope. By the time they get to the bus, spots are dancing across her retinas, shadowy shapes preforming pirouettes that make her dizzy. Her stomach contracts like a snare—she doesn't realize what's happening until the acid burns her throat and vomit heats her chin.

 

A groan bashes against her teeth as her head is pressed against his chest, the pulse in her skull dull and irregular. It is only when he places her down that she becomes aware of the fact that she's no longer walking.

 

“Don't leave me,” she whimpers as distance becomes her home, treasured eyes buried somewhere far from her reach as faces turn into strange masks.

 

Pieces solve puzzles, but she never fits.

 

–

 

“What do you think you're doing?”

 

_Busted_ , Skye thinks, wobbling on one leg. “I was getting a snack.”

 

“Honestly,” Jemma chides, crossing her arms, “that's why you have crutches.”

 

“I don't need them,” she replies, gesturing. “Look, I'm fine.” The stern gaze does not give away. Realizing it's easier to just admit defeat, she lifts one arm towards where her crutches are propped up against the couch.

 

Jemma's smile as she hands them over might be a smirk, Skye can't tell for sure, but there is a lightness in the knowing gleam of her eyes that slips into her heart.

 

“I'm still hungry,” she complains, though she is merely filling the silence, wondering what's made the other woman so happy.

 

“Good,” Jemma declares and _that_ is definitely a smirk, “because Ward made us dinner.”

 

–

 

Sometimes he can't breathe.

 

He presses his hands against his throat and traces familiar contours on the ceiling, a canopy shielding a collapsing sky—somewhere among those leaves he lost his voice and didn't even notice.

For so long he thought Garrett was the one who helped him stand, but he'd been kneeling all along. There is truth etched into tomb stones, blood collecting on unbalanced scales; there are lies carved into his skin, like the eyes in the mirror, they show no mercy.

 

Brittle bones used to slam against expensive wood, absorbing impact with heaving chests and splintering pleas into silent hatred—one day the bruises became a different skin, one that grew hard to recognize.

 

Confusion is buried in jagged ridges, a deep sorrow shaking pillars into rippling sand that clings to his eyelids. Every time he closes them the abrasive surface drags across his retinas,stinging unpleasantly with the memories of days long gone—of lies inhabited by a homeless heart.

 

They touch him like he's a pet they wish to keep, the brush of their hands soft and unassuming, their fingers fanning across his skin. Some days, he imagines their hands ruthless, pushing and pulling him into position with fingers modelled after a familiar grasp.

 

It frightens him—but love is not love until it _hurts_.

 

–

 

Fitz lingers too long with his hand on the small of Jemma's back. There are eyes that track their movements; gazes swollen with thought—one settles in seconds, doubt giving away to fondness, while the other bursts into silence.

 

It drags between them, a trail of regrets burning in its wake—one day these will be ashes, spread too far and wide to ever be retrieved.

 

They won't allow it.

 

–

 

She rubs the pad of her thumb across cracked nail polish and sighs, grey flakes sticking to her skin. Nights like these the world is too small, the halls swollen with absence. _Come back in one piece_ , she told Jemma, because Fitz would take it as an insult and Ward would only stare as if he was shattered long ago.

 

They won't be gone forever, that's what she keeps reminding herself, but dread gnaws at the walls of her stomach, sinking hooks into her ribs and dragging them down—she cannot let the weight of her fears weigh crack her composure

 

Soon enough, she will run her fingers through Leo's curls and clutch the back of Jemma's blouse; she will press herself against them until they slot into place, forgetting for a moment that they are incomplete.

 

One day, she will show Grant that worn pieces can still be part of a puzzle—one day she will have no doubts.

 

Sprawled across the rumpled sheets, she stares at the ceiling and imagines a star-lit sky.

 

Nights like these, she is _alone_.

 

–

There is a black hole in the middle of her lab, slanted across the table and illegible, all hushed emotion and buried thoughts.

 

She can't help but gravitate towards him, fingers dancing along the edges of his presence, as she sneaks a glance at the file he's perusing.

 

“Find anything?”

 

He shakes his head. She steps back when he straightens, suddenly aware of how intrusive her closeness may be. It's strange how comforting his presence has become—she wants nothing more than to close the distance between them.

 

“Did you?” he asks and when his wide, enquiring eyes barrel into hers, she fumbles for a response. For a stuttering heartbeat, they are blank; just pages waiting to be filled.

 

Anxiously selected words fall dully from her lips and when the connection fizzles, she knows she has chosen incorrectly.

 

–

 

“Skye,” he calls out, hurrying down the corridor. She turns around, softly-styled curls bouncing around her shoulders.

 

“Not you too Fitz,” she complains, scrunching her brow. “My leg's fine.”

 

He snaps his mouth shut and swallows his laughter, amused by her disgruntled expression which would surely match Jemma's if she was here.

 

“I wasn't going to-” he breaks off as footsteps near, the sound echoing through the hollow in his chest.

 

“Simmons needs you at the lab,” Ward announces, his voice filling their lungs like smoke—this time, the silence is theirs.

 

He jerks his head in acknowledgement, briefly placing his hand on the crook of the specialist's elbow as he moves past. His fingers ache with the need to linger on solid muscle, to break through hard surface and touch the softness he knows lies beneath. But some skins have been pressured enough, so he keeps the contact light, and leaves a statue in his wake.

 

–

 

_You're not marble_ , Skye thinks, as silence stretches between them. She allows her lips to pull into a grimace, victory achieved in the snap of his gaze.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yeah,” she says, rubbing her thigh. “Just my leg cramping.”

 

The halted step forward tugs at her heart, the jerk of his arms an aborted gesture he fears she will reject. Air rushes through her lungs as she reaches out to grab his arm, expanding in her throat as he immediately moves to support her weight, strong fingers resting on her waist.

 

This close, she can discern the golden flecks in his dark eyes; they glow with a promise the distance shields from sight.

 

“Help me to the rec room?” she asks, leaning into the heat that radiates from his body. They walk with slow and measured steps, ensuring her comfort and disregarding his own. For a moment, she feels guilty for manipulating him, for coaxing contact where he offered none; but his touch rewires defective connections, sparking heat where ice had settled, and she wants nothing more than to lock it in place.

 

_Hold on,_ Skye wills as he lowers her onto the couch, but his hands abandon her body and his worried gaze sinks into his sculpted features.

 

She feels cold, muscles aching and eyelids freezing shut.

 

The blanket that is draped across her laps startles her, a sudden warmth spreading through her chest. She tries to capture his expression in a rushed inhalation, from the embarrassed clench of his jaw to the jitter of his eyes—the sound is deafening.

 

“Stay,” she says, as her insecurities are drowned out by the noise. The look he gives her is conflicted, as if this moment will define the rest of their lives. Old fears crane their necks, anticipation churning in her stomach as dread begins to pump through her veins.

 

The gentle inclination of his head drains the tension from her being; when he sits down next to her, she curls into his side and carefully begins to weave his existence through hers.

 

–

 

Jealous ghosts freeze in the doorway, their failure glaring in the sight of success, but the crashing wave of hurt gives away to a trickle of hope and an ocean of tenderness.

 

Hearts pulse with love; disrupted signals may connect once more. One only needs to give it time and patience.

 

One only needs to be _willing_.

 

 

 

 


End file.
